Bloodline

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘I reckon that’s how he got some of his stories for the paper. If he had even the slightest suspicion about someone, he’d send them a blackmail demand for just two hundred pounds to make the story go away. If they paid, then he had the confirmation he needed that he was right, and he would ask for more, if necessary backing up the demand with an article in the paper that proved he knew what had been going on but, of course, without mentioning anyone by name.’

‘But enough to frighten his victims into paying up.’

‘Precisely,’ I said.

‘But what’s it got to do with the death of your sister?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe nothing, but she was definitely being blackmailed and that may have had something to do with it.’

But, in truth, I felt nowhere nearer finding out why Clare had died.

‘How was the journalist murdered?’ Emily asked.

‘He was stabbed in the back.’

‘And you were there?’

‘Yes, at least, I was there immediately afterwards. I didn’t actually see him being stabbed but I was there when he died a few minutes later. The police thought I might have killed him because he’d written an article about Clare in that morning’s paper. But they couldn’t find any knife, so they let me go.’

And, I thought, they also couldn’t find his briefcase.

Had the notes for Austin Reynolds and Harry Jacobs been printed and ready to go in that stolen briefcase? Was the person who had posted them not an accomplice of Toby Woodley, but his killer?

Emily and I enjoyed the rest of our dinner free of further blackmail discussion, concentrating instead on learning more about each other.

‘So where exactly do you live?’ she asked me.

‘I rent a flat in Edenbridge, in Kent. But I’m intending to buy a house. I’ve even got the details of one in Oxfordshire I like the look of.’

That was something else I had to deal with tomorrow, I thought, along with organizing a car. I also had to contact Detective Sergeant Sharp about the Hilton Hotel CCTV footage, and follow up the guest list for the Injured Jockeys Fund dinner. Between them, I hoped they might give me some clue to the identity of the mystery visitors to Clare’s room on the night she died.

So much for my day off.

Both Emily and I decided against dessert and coffee, opting to go.

‘We can open a bottle of wine when we get to my place,’ Emily said. ‘And have coffee there.’

I looked at my watch. It was still only twenty to nine.

‘Sounds good to me.’

I paid the bill and we walked out together towards Emily’s car.

I was careless. Very careless.

Since the events of Friday night, I had been checking the inside of cars and avoiding all dark spaces but, here and now, I had relaxed my guard.

Thinking back, I believe the fateful moment was when Emily took my hand in hers. Perhaps I was preoccupied by the thoughts of what was to come, reliving the excitement of our first lovemaking the previous afternoon. Or maybe it was just due to an overwhelming feeling of contentment that was flooding through me.

Either way, I was careless.

I didn’t even notice the darkened car until it was almost upon us.

We were half way across the gravel car park and just a few yards from Emily’s red Mercedes when the roaring engine to my left finally cut through into my consciousness.

I half turned and screamed at Emily but it was too late, much too late.

The car hit both of us, spiralling me over the bonnet while Emily went down under the wheels.

I remembered hitting the roof of the car, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the gravel, panting madly, wanting to run but unable to get up.

I rolled over, trying to ignore the searing pain in my side.

The car was already out of the car park on the road, travelling fast, and still it had no lights.

Emily, I thought with panic. Where is Emily?

I gritted my teeth and rolled over again. I searched for her with my eyes, but she was nowhere to be seen.

‘Emily.’ I tried to shout but the sound came out as more of a croak. ‘Emily. Where are you? Are you all right?’

There was no reply and I began to panic further.

I drew myself up onto my knees and coughed.

Blood, I thought. I can taste blood in my mouth. I coughed again. This time, I knew I was coughing up blood.

Each breath was painful and difficult, and I felt sick.

‘Emily,’ I croaked again.

Still nothing.

I forced myself to stand up, if being doubled over and clutching my side could be considered as standing up. But at least I was on my feet.

I took three small steps over and leaned on a car.

Where was she?

I staggered from car to car, searching wildly in the darkness between them.

I finally found her lying face down near the exit of the car park. She must have been dragged there under the wheels.

I sank to my knees beside her.

‘Emily,’ I called touching her shoulder, but there was no reply.

Breathing was becoming very difficult but I gathered the strength to roll her over onto her back. Her face was just a mass of blood and I couldn’t even tell if she was alive or dead.

‘Oh my God!’ I cried. ‘I’m so sorry.’